


The Governor's Pupil

by White_Rainbow



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope
Genre: Krennic thinks he is much better than he is, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Modern assassins AU, Prompt Fic, Tarkin is about to take him down a notch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 11:52:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10244744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rainbow/pseuds/White_Rainbow
Summary: Anon Prompt: omg i just had this idea and i was wondering if you could do a piece on it? Star Wars Modern Assassins AU where Krennic is sent to kill Tarkin but SURPRISE Tarkin used to be an assassin before and just KICKS KRENNIC'S ASS. What happens afterwards is entirely up to you! :DDThis is the result (I certainly did not intend for this to be as long as it was, but I had so much fun building up Krennic's backstory I kinda just kept going. Please enjoy!)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr! [White-Rainbowff](http://white-rainbowff.tumblr.com/)  
> And my Tarkin-specific blog: [I-Luff-Wilhuff](http://i-luff-wilhuff.tumblr.com/)

Krennic was already congratulating himself for a job well-done even before he walked into his target’s apartment.

The Emperor, President and CEO of Death Star Services gave him this job personally. Well, not  _ personally  _ but the contract did come from him. His right-hand man, The Knight, said if anyone could pull it off, it was he.

And in the next few minutes he was going to prove them right. 

_ It’s about time I was recognized for my efforts.  _

Most of the hitmen in the DSS made their way through family legacy or already well-established connections. Krennic, however, came from nothing, started with nothing, and clawed his way to what the underground deemed the Empire of Assassins Supreme. 

Death Star Services was not an easy empire to find and they did not readily accept him and his refined skillset. His persistence and scraping the barrel of low-profile contracts earned him a foot in the front door, but he needed to climb. All he needed was to find that first rung.

He found it in Galen “The Mechanic” Erso.

Galen’s expertise was “accidents”. From gas leak explosions to electrical malfunction, The Mechanic was a master of murder lacking the appearance of murder. Galen was also shy, reclusive, and very easily charmed by the likes of Orson Krennic.

Soon, Krennic was riding on Galen’s coattails, assisting him in high-profile contracts and in some cases taking primary credit for their success. His direction and advice made successful missions run more smoothly. The Director, is what he fancied himself as, and Galen never argued this point.

Orson “The Director” Krennic’s new success and sharp tongue gave him the edge he needed to climb from the Mechanic’s shoulders to earn the attention of The Knight.

And The Knight responded with a single test: Kill The Mechanic.

Krennic accepted.

He executed the hit with a heavy heart...which was soon lifted as he was given his first assignment by The Emperor.

Krennic had never heard of The Governor. Not many had, in fact, or if they did know him they were not willing to speak. The farther Krennic dug, the less he knew and the more excited he became. This truly was a high-profile hit. They trusted him to do this. 

He would not fail.

The mark was...disappointing if Krennic was being honest with himself. The Governor was little more than a tall, thin man in his early sixties, impeccably dressed yet never left his apartment. Krennic spent a week watching the man in the apartment complex across the street, marveling at how this target made it all so easy for him. The blinds were never drawn. His light was always on. It was like peering into a fish tank with an oblivious minnow.

The Governor had breakfast at 8am, tea at 10am, lunch at 2pm and would occasionally eat dinner at random hours. Most days, he sat at his computer typing something on a blank document, the screen always facing Krennic though he could not make it out. (A novel perhaps? A blog of some sort?) and then he would retire with a book in his lounge chair while smoking a pipe. Bed was always promptly at 10pm.

Why was this his first contract? Was The Emperor throwing him a soft ball? Krennic frowned. Perhaps the next hit would be more of a challenge.

Krennic stood in front of the Apartment 1138 at midnight. To anyone who would pass by the apartment (though this quiet block seldom had traffic) they would see a tall, medium build man of impeccable dress and poise. A bright white single-button blazer with black accents along the double-pockets and collar complimented the ivory shirt with shining black buttons. A skinny black tie, black trousers and shining italian boots with a slight heel brought the whole ensemble together immaculately. Krennic had the outfit tailored specifically for this occasion.

With a casual glance around him, Krennic produced a lockpick kit from his trousers and leaned into the door. He made short work of the lock with a simple few twists and turns of the lockpick. Holding his breath, he silently turned the doorknob and eased the door open.

The apartment was pitch black.

_ Drawn curtains…no lamplight... _

Krennic looked around the apartment, his eyes lapping up the meager light coming through between the curtains. As his eyes adjusted he was met with a new problem.

_ Shit. _

The room looked different.

_ Everything _ looked different. 

Even if Krennic could not see the furnishings in the room, the shadows and silhouettes were all in entirely different places than Krennic anticipated. He had memorized the placement of every piece of furniture for a week and now  _ nothing _ was in the same place. 

_ A week of studying this apartment now the old man decides to rearrange his entire home the night before he is hit? _

That made no sense, it was too much of a coincidence.

_ This was not good. No, this was fine, get ahold of yourself, Orson. Stranger things have happened on a job. _

Krennic slipped into the apartment, closed the door behind him and stood for a long while listening.

Faint snores came from the bedroom. If the old man stuck to his rigid schedule from the past week then he would be asleep for another several hours. All Krennic had to do was set up the gas stove, the shoddy wiring and let chemistry do the rest.

_ I will do you proud, Galen.  _ Krennic felt a slight pang in his chest. 

Under normal circumstances Krennic would have been able to simply make a beeline towards the kitchen and begin prepping the oven. Now, however, he had to feel his way around the apartment blindly.

He stubbed his toe once on the couch which had now moved from beneath the bay window to the center of the goddamn room. His hip caught a table and miraculously he was able to catch the vase before it toppled over onto the wooden floor. 

Krennic’s nerves were beginning to unravel. He had planned this perfectly, why was it not _going_ _perfectly_?

This man did not seem to be the type to rearrange his entire house, leave all the lights off and…

Krennic froze. A stream of light came from a wider break between the curtains and caught the surface of what looked like a long metal wire stretched across the archway leading to the kitchen. His chest was mere centimeters away from tripping it.

Slowly, Krennic took a step backwards and ran a finger delicately along the wire. He followed it to a skinny plant with a round bush top where the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun gleamed. 

Horror took over Krennic’s senses.

_ He didn’t set this up in the threshold. He set it up in the kitchen. Where he knew I would go. He knows I’m here. He- _

He threw up his hands a fraction of a second before the piano wire wrapped around his neck. Long skeletal arms whirled around him as the wire coiled twice around his hands and neck; his palms were the only thing keeping him from a slow, painful beheading. Cold terror flooded him and hot blood ran down his arms. He tried to cry out, but his own hands were slowly suffocating him.

“Hush now,” the voice, hot against his ear, was calm. 

Krennic tried to kick out, find his footing, gain some sort of control, but the man kicked Krennic’s feet dangerously far apart keeping him overbalanced.

Stars edges on Krennic’s vision.

He could not find his breath as his own hands betrayed him.

“It will be over soon…”

And soon...it was…

\-----

“Alright, pup, that is enough beauty rest.”

The slaps came in quick succession, snapping Krennic awake. Groggily, he lifted his head struggling to assess the situation.

He had been relieved of his finely tailored suit, dressed in only his white tank shirt, black silk boxers, and socks held up by garters. His hands were bound tightly behind him around a high-back chair with coarse rope. He flexed his hands, the cuts where the wire bit him stung as they rubbed against some sort of bandaging. 

_ Bandages that was a good sign, at least. _

He was forced into a straight posture, his chest and biceps tied against the chair as well and his ankles and shins were bound tightly to the chair legs. He was going nowhere. He took several deep breaths to calm himself and focus on getting his vision back. The room was dimly lit, but at least it was lit. 

Someone stood over him and the shadows made him look like a spectre.

He raised his eyes to meet the gaze of his target.

“Good evening,” was all he said.

He had only seen the Governor from afar. The frail old man pacing lonely through an apartment was not the same man before him at present. 

He was a willow branch sharpened into a deadly spike; a man armed with a hawkish nose, razor cheekbones, and steel gray-blue eyes. His houndstooth suit with a rich brown tie and bone white shirt only highlighted the sleekness of his form.  

A smirk spread across his mirthless face. 

“Smart enough to find my shotgun, but not enough to subdue an old man? Tsk…” 

Krennic snarled and lunged forward, momentarily forgetting his restraints. The lack of movement only enraged him further and he violently jerked his shoulders back and forth to no avail. The ropes strained, his muscles screamed, the wood of the chair groaned, but nothing shook loose. Finally he relented and sank back into the chair panting and glaring.

The man’s smirk broadened. “Are you quite finished?”

“Fuck you,” Krennic spat.

“Oh,” the governor tsked. “Temper, temper. They sent me a lively one it seems. It was  _ They _ that sent you, correct? What is your name, pup?”

“I’m not telling you a goddamn thing,” Krennic snarled.

“No? Not even if they sent you here to die?”

Krennic laughed at the absurdity. 

The governor tilted his head.

“You really do not know who I am?” Tarkin asked, with genuine curiosity.

Krennic’s laugh died and he stiffened. The man did not look familiar. His accent marked him foreign like Krennic, though most certainly not from Brisbane, and probably hailed from somewhere in Britain. He would remember a skinny, ornery Brit like the Governor.

“No,” Krennic sneered. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

The Governor leaned down so that his eyes were level with Krennic’s. The intensity, the crystalline quality of those gray-blue orbs...Krennic almost lost himself in them until the odious man said: “You have heard of Galen Erso, have you not?”

Hearing Galen’s name on someone else’s lips was like a cold slap across the face. 

Galen was a name meant for Orson’s lips. Galen was a man meant only for Orson. 

_ “Galen...I’m so sorry,” Orson says, cradling Galen’s head in his lap, watching the river of blood flow the wound he created. _

_ Galen’s face is ghastly and yet manages an angelic smile. “I know you are, Orson…” The light goes out in his eyes. _

Krennic lurched his head forward meaning to headbutt The Governor square in the nose, but the man backed away just in time, resuming his place to loom over the hitman.

“Ah,” The governor’s eyes glimmered. “You  _ have _ heard of him. Then you should know he was one of mine. My very best in fact…”

Krennic flinched at the implication. Galen was Krennic’s. Only Krennic’s. 

“One of your what?” He snarled.

“My pupil. My  _ star _ pupil.”

Time slowed. 

Pieces of a puzzle Krennic never knew existed began to click together.

_ No...it can’t be... _

Krennic paled. “You’re Wilhuff Tarkin.”

Tarkin nodded. “I am.”

Krennic felt sick. 

Tarkin the legendary assassin that made the Empire what it was today. The Governor...The title made sense, though in those days he never hid his identity. 

He never needed to…

Tarkin the Swift Death

Tarkin the Gray Spectre.

Tarkin the Unkillable Storm.

After being an assassin for fifty years, it was never a question as to whether Tarkin’s repuatation was true.

_ And the Empire thought I could take him down? No... _

“They delivered me to you,” Krennic said, in a dulcet tone.

“On a silver platter, as it were.”

“Why? I did  _ everything  _ that they ask. I...sacrificed everything for them.”

_ I sacrificed my Galen to them.  _

“The Empire does not approve of pets who stray, pup. And I was their prize hound for too long. They fancied me to live out my days in their service until I died most likely on their terms. I found it an undesirable end so I left to live out my days in peace.”

“And they had me kill your student as what...punishment?”

Tarkin actually seemed to consider Krennic’s words. He stood straight, cupped his elbow and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps, but more likely they wanted to use you as a warning. 

They have a no-name assassin kill my best student and hand him over to me to  _ show me _ just how insignificant the man is that brought down Galen…”

Krennic was about to protest that he  _ did  _ have a name, but Tarkin continued.

“They want me to know none of my students are safe. They sent you to me assuming I would kill you, bring back your head and we would negotiate my new terms in exchange for my pupils’ lives.”

Shame weighed down Krennic’s gaze. He never asked them why they wanted the Mechanic dead. He never asked why he had to kill the only person in the world who truly trusted him. The only person he had ever cared for...

“My name is Orson Krennic.”

“Orson Krennic,” Tarkin chewed the words over. He leaned down, his hands resting on Krennic’s thighs. “How did you best my Galen, Mr. Krennic? Were you sleeping with him? He always had a weakness for that dangerous pretty boy look.”

Krennic felt the blush rise in his cheeks and he let out a snarl of distaste. Tarkin grinned. 

“Ah, there it is. I see what he saw in you.”

Krennic jerked his head away, wishing he could push away the barraging thoughts of Galen. His smile, his laugh, his look of complete utter betrayal.

_ All for nothing. _

Tarkin grabbed Krennic’s jaw and forced him to look into those hypnotic crystalline eyes. “You realize the only reason you are alive now is because of Galen, yes?”

Krennic said nothing.

“He must have cared a great deal to let his walls down for you. The very fact you killed him for the DSS only proved to me he let his heart get in the way of his head. It was destined to be his downfall whether it was you or someone else more qualified.”

Krennic hated how much Tarkin saw with such little knowledge. He felt exposed, like a dissected lab rat. 

“It was not easy...to kill him I mean,” Krennic offered.

“Naturally, he was my student.”

Krennic shook his head. “Not...that, I mean…”

_ Krennic cups Galen’s face in his hands. He presses his cheek against Galen’s face, feeling the skin already begin to cool. _

_ “I love you, Galen…” _

_ Galen was already gone. He never heard those words. He never knew... _

Maybe Krennic deserved this. Maybe he deserved his severed head to be presented to The Empire. Tarkin deserved to avenge his student’s death.

“Do you want revenge. Mr. Krennic?”

Krennic blinked…

“You killed for DSS. It is what we expect of all our... _ their... _ assassins. They asked you to prove your loyalty and you did. And you were met with punishment rather than reward. They made you kill Galen and made his death be in vain. So I ask you again, Mr. Krennic. Do you want revenge?”

Krennic gritted his teeth. He leveled his gaze. He pulled against his bindings to lean into Tarkin’s face so they were eye-to-eye.

“Yes, I really do.”

Tarkin hummed in approval. 

“They already assume you are dead. We shall use this to our advantage. Join me and we will take down the Empire from the inside out. In exchange for your help, I will take you on as my pupil. The Empire saw potential in you even if they did intend to feed you to the wolves, but more importantly...” Tarkin glided his long slender fingers along Krennic’s jawline. He tilted Krennic’s face from side-to-side as if inspecting it. “...Galen saw something in you. That is worth something more.”

Krennic swallowed hard. 

Tarkin pulled out a small razor from his belt. With a few cuts the ropes slackened and slowly Krennic slipped free. He rubbed his wrists and stretched his neck. 

“Well then, Mr. Krennic, I believe we have a deal.” He deftly sheathed the blade to his belt and straightened his blazer. 

“Director,” Krennic said, feeling now a bit embarrassed saying it aloud to a living legend. “I...prefer to be known as The Director.”

“Yes, of course, Director…” Tarkin rolled his r’s in such a way that brought heat to Krennic’s ears. “Now, I believe we have some work to do.”


End file.
